by CJ Carver
He took a step back. ‘Why can’t he make it?’
‘He didn’t say. But he told me that meeting you was incredibly important, that he didn’t want to miss it, and that I had to be here instead.’
‘Fucksake.’ He ran a hand over his face. ‘I’ve got a fucking story to tell that’s worth a fortune and he sends me a pint-sized fucking emissary instead.’
‘What story?’
His eyes turned cunning. ‘Give me the fifty grand and I’ll tell you.’
‘I don’t know anything about fifty grand,’ she said carefully.
‘Why am I not surprised?’ He flung up his hands. ‘What a waste of a fucking journey.’
‘Hey,’ she said, putting out a hand. ‘Wait a moment—’
He slapped her hand away. ‘Fuck off. Get the big man to meet me himself next time, OK?’
The temptation to whip out her warrant card and scare the crap out of him for drink driving nearly crippled her. She forced herself to take several deep breaths to steady herself as she watched him climb into his shitty heap of a car. He gave her the finger as he left. Unbelievable. What a misogynistic shitbag.
The second he was out of view, she pelted for her Corsa, wishing she’d parked closer, wanting to follow him, but as she tore around the rear of her car a dark shape suddenly reared up out of the dark and wrapped its arms around her. A man. He wore gloves and a balaclava.
She opened her mouth to shout, scream for help, but there was no time.
The man slammed his forehead straight into her face.
She felt her nose break as the world exploded into white light. Her limbs went numb. Warm liquid poured down her face and chin. Choking she tried to call out but he leaned forward and punched her hard in the stomach. All the air rushed out of her lungs.
Disabled, gasping for breath, she was helpless when he grabbed her hands and yanked them behind her back. She tried to fight but she had no breath and her efforts were pitiful against his brute strength. He dragged her to a car. When she saw its boot was open panic flooded her, giving her a surge of strength. She gave a violent buck and felt his grip slip but then something slammed into the side of her head. This time there was no white light. Just black.
CHAPTER FIFTY
A junior Bundespolizei officer showed Dan into Chief Inspector Richter’s office where Philip Denton was handing Richter some paperwork. Philip was almost obsequious in his apologies. Although the German was polite, Dan could tell the man was furious by the pinched skin around his eyes and mouth.
‘Sie haben nichts getan, aber unsere Zeit vershwendet.’ You’ve done nothing but waste our time.
Philip responded calmly. ‘If I can help you or your team with anything in the future, please call me directly.’ He handed Richter one of the cards that Dan knew Philip used only rarely and which held two mobile numbers.
‘Thank you.’ The German must have realised the importance of what he held because he looked surprised, and pleased.
‘Quid pro quo.’
‘Thank you,’ Richter said again, nodding. He didn’t delay releasing Dan any further. That was how Philip’s world worked. Someone did you a favour and you reciprocated even if it took years. Personal obligations were worth more than gold in his business.
As they walked outside, Philip said, ‘I thought you should know that after lending you my car, I went and visited little Joanna Loxton to see what was going on. I arrived at her flat at eleven on Sunday morning, but instead of a cosy, domestic scene I was faced with a cold and empty flat.’
‘They’ve moved out?’
‘On Saturday, a neighbour told me. Lock, stock, and barrel.’
‘Where to?’
‘No idea. They didn’t leave a forwarding address either.’
Joanna Loxton was running scared and Dan wasn’t surprised with a hired assassin like Sirius Thiele being on the scene.
At the airport, when their flight was called, Dan looked at his boss. ‘Thanks.’
Philip stood and looked him in the eye. ‘You owe me, Dan.’
‘I know.’
‘Remember this when I call upon you.’
‘I will.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Lucy came to in the back of the car. The blood from her nose was running down the back of her throat. It felt like she was drowning. Shuffling on to her side, she coughed trying to clear her airways. Her sinuses were scorching with pain. She couldn’t breathe through her nose at all.
The car was lurching from side to side. They were on a rough track of some sort. Not a road.
How long had she been unconscious for?
She lay there gasping, trying not to let her panic balloon out of control.
Your phone. Find your phone.
She searched her pockets but it had been taken, along with her car keys and handbag. She had nothing on her. Not even a tissue.
OK, she thought. You’ve got to escape. You’re in a car boot. There’s a latch that’ll pop it open. You just have to find it.
In the pitch dark she started groping her fingers along the boot lid for the release cable. The car gave a couple of bounces and she groaned as her elbow and knee smacked into metal.
To her dismay the car started to slow.
Not yet, she begged. I need more time.
The car stopped. The engine was switched off.
She heard the driver’s door open and as the sound of footsteps approached the rear of the car, she frantically wriggled around so her boots would be the first thing he saw.
Clunk.
Fresh, cold air poured over her. For a second it felt blissful against the red-hot fire burning inside her sinuses.
It was still light but barely. She guessed the sun had just set or thereabouts.
As the man bent down she lashed out with her boots. She connected with his hands and wrists but he appeared impervious. She was shouting, her voice broken and filled with blood, fighting with every muscle, but he was much stronger than she was.
‘I’m a police officer,’ she gasped. ‘DC Lucy Davies. When I don’t show up tonight, every police officer in Scotland will be looking for me. Let me go.’
It was as though she hadn’t spoken.
He hauled her outside, plucking her clear of the boot as though she was nothing but a pillow.
Snapshot glimpses. Moorland all around. A handful of rotting farm buildings with weeds growing out of the windows.
The man started carting her across the dilapidated farmyard. She bucked and twisted violently, her chest pounding, nose agonising now, specks dancing in her eyes. She turned her head, trying to bite him, force him to drop her, but he simply raised a fist and clouted her behind the ear.
Pain detonated like a bomb through her head and sinuses. She heard herself emit a scream, and then her head was lolling, her mouth spilling saliva and blood.
She was only half aware he was lugging her away from the farmyard, his gait lurching across grass and clumps of heather.
She wanted to speak. She wanted to tell him that if he let her go she’d protect him from the police, but all that came out was a deep groan of pain.
And then he stopped. Rotated and looked down.
Eyes streaming, her breath clogged and panicky, Lucy looked too.
Edged with heather was a black hole about the width of a washing machine. She couldn’t see the bottom. It was too dark.
Fuck, no.
And then the man was shoving her downwards, obviously intending to push her inside the hole.
‘NO!’ she screamed.
She struggled, fought with all her might against his bulk of solid muscle, but she was too small and already enfeebled by pain. She tried to go for his eyes but he threw her downwards, forcing her into the hole.
She was screaming and gasping as she clutched at the heather, desperately thrashing at the empty air above the hole, and then he brought back his boot and before she could duck, belted her on the forehead.
A flash of white light exploded behind
her eyes and she plummeted downwards.
She landed ankle first – she felt it give, then a sharp stab of pain – and folded to the ground onto her knees and elbows, dizzy, blinded.
Her vision turned cloudy. She must have passed out for a second or two.
She was conscious of a bulging pain in her skull and she couldn’t help it, she retched. She heard herself moaning. She wanted nothing more than to curl up and lose consciousness, make it all go away, but she forced herself upright. Looked up to see the fading sky. Nothing else.
‘Wait!’ she shouted. Her voice was congested but her words were clear enough. ‘Please! Just tell the police where I am! I won’t tell anyone about you, I promise!’
Her words were swallowed by damp walls and moss, barely lifting above the heather-rimmed hole.
‘Please!’ she yelled.
She heard an engine start up in the distance.
This can’t be happening. Please God make him come back, please.
Blood in her mouth, weak with terror, Lucy stood and listened to the engine disappearing until it had gone altogether.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
By the time Dan got to the hospital it was past visiting time but that didn’t deter him. He strode through reception and along a corridor looking straight ahead and as though he knew where he was going. When he came to a ward he ducked back out of sight, waiting until the nurse behind her desk moved away, at which point he stepped forward. Scanned the desk. Picked up a pen and clipboard, removed the papers from the clipboard and left them behind.
Nobody looked at him twice as he sped through the hospital. Finally, he was in the post-natal ward. Rooms with between four and six beds were on either side of the corridor. Fortunately, the occupants of each room were listed on a tab outside by the door.
Women talked quietly, and he could hear a baby mewling, the sound of a TV, but otherwise it was peaceful.
He strode on but didn’t see Jenny’s name. Anxiety building, he rounded the corner. When he saw a uniformed police officer sitting outside what he took to be a private room, he paused. The constable rose swiftly to his feet, stance wary.
‘I’m looking for Jenny Forrester,’ Dan said.
‘Sorry, mate. Can’t help you.’
The cop tried to look insouciant but his eyes were sharp and were scanning Dan. Was he checking for weapons?
Dan was about to move off to find a nurse to help him when the door behind the cop opened.
‘Dan,’ Jenny said. ‘I thought I heard your voice.’ She looked at the police officer. ‘It’s OK. He’s my husband.’
The cop still insisted on seeing Dan’s ID, and only after calling in his visit to Control allowed them to head inside the room.
‘What’s happened?’ Dan put down the clipboard.
She looked at him as though considering how to respond.
‘Jenny . . .’ he warned her.
‘Don’t you want to see your son?’ She tilted her head at the cot beside the bed.
‘Not until you tell me why there’s a policeman outside your door.’
She continued to look at him.
‘Please,’ he added.
Still she looked at him. He wasn’t sure what to do, so he moved to the cot and looked down. He blinked then looked at Jenny. ‘Gosh, he’s a good size.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Her voice was dry.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Caesarean. Mischa was bottom-down.’
‘Mischa?’ He’d thought they’d decided on the name Michael for their boy.
Her chin rose. ‘It’s a diminutive of Michael.’
‘I like it.’
As he moved towards her, wanting to touch her, hold her, love her, she added in the same quiet voice, ‘Oh, and someone called Sirius came and visited.’
It was as though he’d been tasered. His body went rigid from head to toe. Every cell was electrified.
‘Sirius?’ His voice was hoarse.
‘Yes.’
‘Where’s Aimee?’
‘With Mum and Dad.’
‘What did he want?’
‘He told me to tell you to stop what you were doing in Germany.’ Her gaze was glued to her fingers.
‘And?’
‘Or you wouldn’t have a son to come home to.’
It was as though an ice pick had buried itself in his stomach. He knew what Sirius was capable of. In certain circles he was known for being the least discriminating person anyone knew because if he wanted to kill or torture someone, it didn’t matter if they were black or white or brown, male or female, a child, a baby or a grandparent. It made no difference. It was a job, and he did it.
‘He means it, Dan.’
Her voice was calm but then he saw the tears filling her eyes. The fear on her face. He went to her and held her close. Rocked her gently. Let her weep against his chest.
His mind churned. How did Sirius Thiele know he’d gone to Germany? Had it been Michael Wilson’s passport that had alerted someone somewhere? Or was it someone closer to home? After all, several people knew he’d visited Isterberg, including Anneke, Detective Superintendent Didrika Weber, the headmaster of Grundschule Isterberg and Viveka, the brauhaus waitress.
Who had told Sirius?
Gustav or Arne? Anneke or Sophie? The caretaker of the Isterberg Cemetery?
‘We’ll have to find you somewhere safe to stay,’ he said, ‘until this is over.’
At that, she jerked out of his embrace. Her eyes were blazing. ‘Don’t you dare.’
‘How else are we going to keep you safe?’ He was baffled.
‘You stop doing,’ she hissed, ‘what you are fucking doing!’
‘But I want to find who killed Dad.’
‘Then find another way because I am not going to another bloody safe house ever again.’ Her voice began to rise. ‘I am going home with my son where I will remain safe and sound because YOU WILL FUCKING STOP WHAT YOU WERE DOING IN GERMANY.’
Silence.
‘I mean it, Dan.’ Her expression was fierce.
‘OK.’ He held up both hands in surrender but her face was still flushed, her fists clenched.
‘Ma’am.’ A man’s voice broke between them. Dan looked around to see the policeman had stepped inside the room. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘I’m just leaving,’ Dan told him. He looked at his wife. ‘I’d kiss you,’ he told her, ‘but I don’t think now is the right time.’
‘Correct,’ she snapped.
‘He’s beautiful. I adore him. I adore you.’
She glared at him.
‘I will stop what I am doing,’ he told her. ‘I have stopped, OK?’
Her look of doubt was the biggest rebuke she could have given him.
‘I promise,’ he added and made a cross over his heart.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Mac had tried Lucy’s phone several times that evening without success. He’d got her text earlier requesting a number plate check on what transpired to be a funeral director’s van, and he was using that as an excuse to ring her when in reality he just wanted to hear her voice.
She hadn’t called in very often, but then she never did unless he nagged and he hated nagging. It made him feel small and mean, and when she looked at him with those deep brown eyes of hers he invariably ended up going on the defensive, which then made him look like a bully. God, could he ever win?
He made himself some spag bol. It wasn’t bad but it would probably taste better if he hadn’t been eating alone. Oh, get a grip, he told himself. Or go online and find another girlfriend but for Christ’s sake stop being so fucking miserable. He washed up the dishes and then on impulse rang Ross and Grace’s landline.
‘Hi, Mac.’ Grace sounded surprised and he couldn’t blame her. Why would Lucy’s boss be ringing her at nine-thirty in the evening? He wished he’d met Grace, then he might have felt more comfortable talking to her. Knowing Grace was one of Lucy’s best friends didn’t help. It simply made
him feel ridiculously shy and tongue-tied.
‘Hi, is Lucy there?’
‘No, sorry. She’s gone south. To Bath. She collected her things earlier.’
‘Bath?’ he repeated but inside he was shouting What the fuck?!
‘I’ll get her to ring you, shall I?’
‘That would be great. I’ve left a message on her mobile but haven’t heard back yet.’
‘No problem. ‘Bye.’
He hung up. Bath? What the hell was in Bath? Roman ruins, he knew, but not much more. Come on, Lucy, he thought. Ring me. Fill me in, would you?
He switched on the TV and turned the volume down low while he did some paperwork. When the BBC Ten O’Clock News came on he settled on the sofa to watch it, but his mind wouldn’t settle and he knew it wouldn’t until Lucy had called in. He checked his phone’s volume was on max. No missed call, no text. He turned back to the TV, started to watch Newsnight.
Mac fell asleep half an hour later with his phone on his chest.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Lucy was in darkness. She couldn’t even see her hand in front of her face. All she could hear was her own wet breathing. Her broken nose was throbbing and sending pulses of pain through the centre of her head and behind her eyes. Breathing was agony. Everything was agony.
She’d already checked the well out. At least that’s what she guessed it was. An old well, partially filled in, but not enough that she could climb out. She’d already tried, several times, but the walls were slippery and sheer with no foot or hand holds, and she simply slid back to the bottom at each attempt.
It had to be at least fifteen feet deep and she’d been lucky the bottom was covered in vegetation, clumps of broken heather and moss, or she’d have done more damage when she’d been pushed. As it was she’d just twisted her ankle. It was sore, hot to the touch and already swollen, but it was nothing compared to her face. She didn’t think she’d ever been in such pain before, not even when that greenie had thrown the soup can at her.
She began to shiver in earnest. Jeans were rubbish at keeping you warm and she wished she’d never got changed. She would have killed for Grace’s winter walking trousers and snug 3-in-1 fleecy jacket. At least she was shivering, because that was a response to preserve heat. The time to start worrying was when you stopped. She wasn’t sure of the best way to stay warm, whether to keep hopping across the well on her good foot or huddle in the corner with her arms wrapped around herself. She ended up doing a mixture of both. She couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t stop wondering when anyone would realise she’d disappeared. Had they found her car outside the inn yet? Or had her kidnapper hidden it?
